Cold Hands
by LiluyeAsala
Summary: It's all her fault for not being there in time. All her fault.


I do not own Dragon Age.

This was a prompt from a meme on tumblr - sent in by tumblr user gayveline.

Prompt: Leliana + Grief

* * *

Her fingers are cold and clutch yours rigidly and without feeling. They have been as such for a long time now, what feels like days and days. Maybe it was only minutes, though, because you know from the warmth of the blood that coats your hands that it is still quite recent.

She stares up at you with blank eyes, her face spattered with her own blood and the blood of her enemies, who lay like limp fish with arrows stuck into every inch of mangled flesh on their corrupted bones. Her eyes - you smooth the dark strands of hair, raggedly cut, away from the once blue orbs that reminded you of ice water - are half closed, and they are forever stilled as they peer right into your face. They were alive once, you remember, only moments ago, but mow they are not so and it was entirely your fault.

Her blood is all over you, her hand gripping yours with the coldness of death, and all because one arrow couldn't stop pure evil from fulfilling it's work.

You...can't. You can't. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't!

"Sister, Sister Nightingale!" you hear the Inquisitor's voice call, worried and haggard. "Where are you?"

You hear another voice too - one that brings tightness to your throat and saltwater to your eyes.

("Sister Leliana? ...my name is Atalanta, a pleasure to meet you," she says, tilting her head slightly in suspicion. "You don't fight much like a cloistered sister, huh?")

"She's over here," you hear the Seeker say. Her dark voice sounds oddly distant. You wonder why. You hear footsteps, someone is running on the balls of their feet - someone trained in moving quickly and steadily. It is Cassandra, no doubt. Lighter feet, a tiptoe flurry of leather scraping stone floors, follow behind. The Inquisitor, you know.

"By the Maker, is that...?" Cassandra's voice trails off in shock.

"Someone, get ahold of her! She's going to hurt herself!" the Inquisitor insists, and you have no idea who they could be talking about. You don't much care either. Nothing really matters much anymore, does it?

("This is who you are, Leliana," the elf urges you, her eyes bright with the passion she speaks with and her voice low and intense. "Don't deny yourself something that makes you happy. You'll only be hurting yourself in the long run."

You see her then, dark hair and flushed cheeks and heaving chest and moving lips, with stars in her eyes, and you don't think you have ever seen anything more beautiful.)

You feel something cold and solid clasp your shoulder - a metal gauntlet, that of the Seeker's.

"Leliana," she says dimly, her voice low. "Leliana, I know you are hurting, I know nothing seems possible, but grieving can be done later, we cannot stay here!"

You must have responded with something, but you can't remember it and can only recall the feeling of a dead hand grasping at your own.

"No, Leliana, please," the Nevarran pleads with you, trying to duck into your line of vision, "We'll bring her back with us, but I can't risk your life nor the Inquisitor's by staying here any longer!"

You feel your lips moving, empty words speaking, but there isn't anything left to say. Nobody is left alive that truly wants to hear it. The only person who did has dead eyes, a still heart, and a poisoned arrowhead lodged into her side.

"Cher ami, je veux que vous soyez d'accord!" the little elf Inquisitor says, her voice high and her enunciation deplorable. The sentiment is kind, but you are not okay, alright, anything near it.

("So how are you doing since...you know, the whole thing with Marjolaine and our conversation?" she asks, making an extra attempt to be casual as she settles down in front of the fire beside you, her long dark hair finally out of its rigid bun and falling down her shoulders. You have never seen her so casual. "Are you...okay?")

No, no, no, they are pulling you away from her now, and her fingers slip out of your grasp and everything becomes lucid again - your throat burns from shrieking and wailing and Orlesian curses slide off your tongue with relative ease, your face is drenched and your eyes sting with too many tears, and you struggle against Cassandra's steady grip and the Inquisitor's light touch as they haul you away from her, from your heroine, from your love - no, no, no, no! Finally the Seeker gets fed up with you and hoists you over her broad shoulder as you kick and shout in a manner most unprofessional but you don't fucking care because she's gone and she's not coming back and it's all your fault and for a moment everything had been fine and she had smiled and said your name and -

"Will she be alright?" the Inquisitor frets, over your keening. You feel Cassandra shrug uneasily.

"You must give her time. She will not be the same," she answers. "She needs to grieve."

"I don't want -" the Inquisitor starts, but you lash out at her suddenly about how it isn't about what she fucking wants because did she lose someone tonight? You didn't think so, not everything's about the stupid Inquisitor just because she's Andraste's eagle or whatever the bloody hell everyone's calling her nowadays and -  
"Solange," Cassandra says over your ranting, and you hear desperation in her voice, "Go on ahead. Bull and I will take care of her and the Warden." The elf starts to protest but Cassandra cuts her off firmly. "You're just agitating her. She needs to be left alone. The only way she can heal is letting everything sink in. I know her, she will recover and rise stronger than before - that is what grieving means."

And you think maybe Cassandra understands you more than she lets on and you sag against her and just cry because there's nothing else you can do other than grasp at the ghost of the cold dead girl that was once yours to love.


End file.
